So, I have had a really crumby day, and I can’t sleep because my brain is a real jerk sometimes. I just haven’t been feeling very motivated to do anything lately, and even though I’ve been trying to get in shape and get healthy and feel good about myself, the past week or so has just made me feel really insecure about my body, and today it all built upon itself and I feel terrible. I don’t like my body. It’s springtime and that means that there are a lot of people who are wearing short sleeves and shorts and dresses and all that happy fun stuff, and I have (stupidly) started comparing myself to all of the skinny, petite girls I see on campus. And that’s not healthy and I know it, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t do it or that I find it easy to ignore it.
Let’s face it. I am a girl who has grown up in a western 1st world country, in which the female ideal fed to society is that of being skinny, blonde, long-haired, and clear-skinned. I am none of those (well, at the moment. I am a natural blonde and I do not enjoy my natural color, and long hair looks weird on me.) I am chubby, I gained more weight than I care to admit in the past year I’ve been away at school, my face has been breaking out lately, and compared to every other girl I see I do not feel beautiful.
And that is the key, I do not feel beautiful. I know that I am, but lately, it’s been incredibly hard to believe. And while I am sitting here watching Daredevil and looking at workouts and feeling sorry for myself and lying in bed covered in self-hatred, I decided to write. Because writing, in all its magic and mystery and power, is the most cathartic tool in my self-care arsenal. And I don’t know what I am writing, I don’t know why I want to write, after all this time of trying to write a number of different posts and coming up blanker than a painting of a rabbit in a snowstorm. I don’t know why I want to write about my body.
Truth be told, I hate my body. I hate my hair, how straight it is. I hate my hair, how it doesn’t hold a curl or hold any sort of shape whatsoever. I hate that my hair doesn’t do what I want it to do. I hate how I hold so much of my self-worth and my self-esteem in my hair. I hate how I don’t trust anyone but my hairdresser to touch it. I hate my face, I hate the shape of it, and I hate that I have gained weight on it. I hate how I have too small features, and how my forehead always breaks out first. I hate that my eyebrows don’t arch naturally and that they look like straight lines running toward either ear. I hate my eyes and how they are so boringly brown. I hate that I can count the number of people who have ever complimented the color of my eyes on one hand. I hate my nose, how one side sticks out a bit from where I ran into a telephone pole in middle school. I hate that it is constantly covered in irremovable blackheads that will not go away for anything. I hate that I still have dark inner corners under my eyes, and how they will probably never going to go away. I hate how my cheeks get terribly red when I get nervous, when I get embarrassed, when I work out, and how they don’t go back to normal until it is two hours later and I look like a flushed, drunken girl. I hate my lips, that they are too small, and how I will never be able to project my voice loud enough to take a lead in a song because I cannot open my mouth any wider. I hate that my jawline has disappeared, and how nice and tight and clean and straight it used to be. I hate that I tilt my head down slightly and I make a double (heck, sometimes even triple) chin.
I hate my neck, how at the back of it there’s a lump above my spine that sticks out horribly. I hate that a muscle in the left side is always hurting. I hate my shoulders, how one doesn’t fit in place properly, and how one fits a little too properly. I hate that all I have to do is move it and it pops. I hate my back, for being so crooked and bent and broken that it hurts. I hate that my back causes every part of my body to be crooked, and how nothing is even anymore. I hate my collarbones, how I can’t see them anymore, and how nice they looked when I was smaller. I hate my chest, how it breaks out in acne for no reason at all. I hate my lungs because they can’t hold all the breath I need them to and how they are the first to act out when I have an anxiety attack. I hate my stomach for not being able to eat before 9 am. I hate that my stomach isn’t flat anymore, how it’s bloated and clinging to the fat and the sugar and the other foods I have tried to stop eating. I hate my uterus, for extracting revenge on me every month because surprise, surprise, no baby has been made. (Woman’s body want baby, woman doesn’t want baby, woman’s body takes revenge) I hate that it puts me in pain.
I hate my thighs, how they are so big and covered in stretch marks. How they run into things constantly. I hate my knees for bending the wrong ways, and for popping when I stand up, and for hurting for no good reason at all. I hate my calves and my muscles for tightening up when I walk and for cramping up when I’m lying in bed. I hate how I have to constantly shave to keep them looking decent. I hate my ankles for being dry and flaky and gross. I hate my feet for being too big, for being calloused and discolored. I hate my toes for bending funny and pointing in weird directions.
So, I have had a really crumby day, and I can’t sleep because my brain is a real jerk sometimes. I just haven’t been feeling very motivated to do anything lately, and even though I’ve been trying to get in shape and get healthy and feel good about myself, the past week or so has just made me feel really insecure about my body, and today it all built upon itself and I feel terrible. I don’t like my body. It’s springtime and that means that there are a lot of people who are wearing short sleeves and shorts and dresses and all that happy fun stuff, and I have (stupidly) started comparing myself to all of the skinny, petite girls I see on campus. And that’s not healthy and I know it, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t do it or that I find it easy to ignore it.
Let’s face it. I am a girl who has grown up in a western 1st world country, in which the female ideal fed to society is that of being skinny, blonde, long-haired, and clear-skinned. I am none of those (well, at the moment. I am a natural blonde and I do not enjoy my natural color, and long hair looks weird on me.) I am chubby, I gained more weight than I care to admit in the past year I’ve been away at school, my face has been breaking out lately, and compared to every other girl I see I do not feel beautiful.
And that is the key, I do not feel beautiful. I know that I am, but lately, it’s been incredibly hard to believe. And while I am sitting here watching Daredevil and looking at workouts and feeling sorry for myself and lying in bed covered in self-hatred, I decided to write. Because writing, in all its magic and mystery and power, is the most cathartic tool in my self-care arsenal. And I don’t know what I am writing, I don’t know why I want to write, after all this time of trying to write a number of different posts and coming up blanker than a painting of a rabbit in a snowstorm. I don’t know why I want to write about my body.
Truth be told, I love my body. I love my hair, how I can easily experiment on it. I love my hair, how I can use it to express myself and my creativity. I love that I hold my self-esteem in the state of my hair, and how a good hair day equals a good day sometimes. I love that I value and respect this part of my body so much that I only trust one person to take care of it. I love my face, how it makes a wonderfully blank canvas to apply makeup and create art on. I love the shape of it, that it is versatile and has a captivity about it. I love my forehead, how it is neither too small or too big. I love my eyebrows, how they do not fit the status quo or the fashion of the time, but rather how they fit perfectly within the proportions of my face and sit strongly above my eyes. I love my eyes and how they are so deeply brown. I love that they are beautiful but often overlooked, only noticed by those who make an effort to see them. I love my nose, how it fits perfectly with the rest of my silhouette when I turn to look at it in profile. I love the vein you can barely see against the skin under my right eye and how it will always be there. I love that my cheeks tend to give away my feelings, and how they show me that I have worked hard to keep the color in them after a workout. I love my lips, how they are perfectly set on my face and how they are perfectly shaped, not too full and not too flat for me. I love that my jawline is still visible and that in some moments it is still strong and tight and beautiful. I love that I can entertain myself and love myself, even with two or three chins.
I love my neck, how it helps me keep my chin up and my head held high. I love my shoulders, how they are strong and broad and able to carry the weight of more than I will ever be able to imagine. I love my back, for keeping me standing tall even when I do not feel like I can stand with confidence. I love my collarbones, for sticking out ever so slightly, and for helping me look healthy. I love my chest, how it keeps my lungs and heart inside and safe. I love my lungs, how, after all this time, they still do not stop working. I love that my stomach doesn’t hurt when I eat anymore. I love my stomach because it is not flat, it is not concave, and it is healthy. I love my uterus because one day it is going help me bring a beautiful life into the world. I love that it works just like it should.
I love my thighs, for how strong and sturdy they are. I love that they keep me standing and they do not let me fall. I love my knees for helping me walk and run and jump. I love my calves and muscles because they just look so. dang.good. I love my ankles for working and bending and twisting properly. I love my feet for keeping me grounded and for helping me feel the earth beneath me. I love my toes for helping me keep balanced and to help me go on adventures.
Because at the end of the day, it’s good to write down what you don’t like, but it’s good to counteract that with what you do. Because even loving yourself is something that I figured out a while ago, it is still a constant process and something I still have to learn every single day.
Learning to love the body God gave me,
Emily E.
